The skin of cushion drops to the floor.
Small hiccups of scared sobs.
I collapse onto my side.
I curl up my legs into a ball.
The tears fall so heavy and strong. I let out a small mew of pain.
I wish my life wasn’t this.
I cry until my body runs out of water. That’s the only way to make it stop when this happens.
Then I sleep.
I sleep like I have the flu.
• Love Sick – Gretel’s Guide to Dating Self-Care
* * *
It’s so easy to lose sight of yourself in the initial exciting hormone flurry of early dating.
Don’t.
Remember you need to keep your independence and high-value worth and all the other things he’s fallen for. Yes, your body basically feels like you’re snorting twelve lines of cocaine every twelve minutes, but override all those natural human impulses. I do.
While it’s easy to get carried away, make sure you spend some time looking out for yourself. Dating can be exhausting, even if it’s going well, so get well-rehearsed in the empowering act of self-care. Run yourself a bubble bath; put on a facemask; light a candle; treat yourself to some cashmere-covered stationery and write lists of everything you feel grateful for. You deserve it. I mean, there’s no significant trauma with resulting long-lasting mental-health issues that can’t be fixed with a sheet mask and writing you’re glad it was sunny today in calligraphy.
* * *
I sleep till eleven on Sunday morning, and even then I’m only woken up by the stifling heat. I need to pee, and to drink all the world’s water, but the thought of getting up is unbearable. I lie on my side in yesterday’s clothes and whisper ‘get up get up get up’ to myself for at least five minutes before I do. I force myself to take a shower. I smell Joshua all over my body and I exfoliate and loofah him off my skin, wondering if there is ever going to be a part of my life where I don’t find existing so very hard.
Joshua: How was your shift this morning? I’ve been out jogging. In this heat! Are you impressed?
Joshua: Happy Sunday. What do you want to do tomorrow, O Gretel, Gretel, wherefore art thou Gretel?
I stare at my phone and the post-sex-reassurance messages I didn’t even have to worry into existence. In fact, I’m the jerk who hasn’t replied. I shove my toothbrush in my mouth and reply while I dozily shove it around my teeth.
Gretel: Battery died! How are you not dead after that run? I am impressed, but also scared you are doping. Are you doping, Joshua?
He replies before I’ve even spat out my toothpaste.
Joshua: Sometimes I ask for two shots in my coffee? Does that count?
Gretel: Most IT worker version of doping ever.
Gretel: Also, movie tomorrow instead of dinner? I need air con in my life right now.
We are to meet at seven in Leicester Square. We are to watch that summer blockbuster with all the special effects. We are to go back to Joshua’s afterwards for yet more sex. Though that bit’s assumed rather than verbally added to the agenda. With that all organised, Gretel leaves my body and I slump onto the sofa and stay there until Megan comes home.
‘It stinks in here,’ is how she announces her arrival. ‘And why are there fucking feathers everywhere?’ She stops and looks at me, lying sideways and staring glassily at Dawson’s Creek with the sound off. She knows instantly. ‘Oh my God, hon.’
‘I’m fine,’ I tell Dawson’s big fat forehead. ‘Sorry about the cushion. I’ll clear it up. I’ll buy you a new one.’
She dumps her giant bag of overnight gear onto the floor and sits by my head, reaching out to put her hand on me. The kindness of it makes me start weeping.
‘Sorry,’ I keep saying. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry! Don’t worry about the cushion. What’s going on? Oh hon.’ She lifts me up from under my shoulders and kind of drapes me into hugging her. I cry onto her shoulder, tears flowing, my muscles too heavy to move myself. I’m like one of Taylor Swift’s highly malleable cats. Megan strokes my hair. ‘Oh honey,’ she whispers into my hair. ‘There, there, it’s going to be OK. It’s in the past, remember? It can’t hurt you now.’
‘I’m being stupid,’ I manage to get out. ‘It will pass. Sorry. I think Dawson pushed me over the edge.’
She laughs. ‘He has that impact on most people. Right, come on. Sugar. You need sugar.’ She strokes my hair one last time, then gets up and goes into our kitchen, returning with the Dairy Milk she’s smart enough to keep in the fridge. She breaks off a block of eight fat squares. ‘Eat,’ she commands, pushing the chocolate into my mouth. It’s hard to bite into without chipping a tooth, but I chew and obey. It starts to melt and turn to thick, creamy sludge, squelching in between my teeth. It tastes nice. I swallow and open my mouth like a baby bird. Megan laughs, cracks another line and feeds it to me, before having some herself. Within minutes, the sugar has done what it’s supposed to do and I feel slightly lifted, slightly more able to hold up my own muscles again. I wiggle so I’m sitting upright.
‘Sorry,’ I say again.
‘Stop saying sorry.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I will hit you.’
‘Why is Dawson so annoying?’
‘He is actually the worst. What episode you on?’ She sits next to me and we press play and watch the rest of it. It’s the one where Dawson and Joey finally kiss and Megan lets out a sigh when they do.
‘I can’t believe they’ve not noticed it’s raining,’ I say. It’s what I always say when we watch this one.
‘I know. Even Andie fucking MacDowell noticed the rain when she was kissing Hugh Grant. And Hugh Grant is way more distracting to kiss than Dawson.’
We watch the two teenagers swap saliva and return to our predictable arguments about why Pacey is so much better. When the credits kick in, and Dawson has gone on to patronise another day, Megan and I turn to one another.
‘What set it off?’ she asks.
‘I love you, but I really don’t want to talk about it. Please, can we talk about something else?’
‘I love you too.’ She switches off Dawson and the screen goes black. ‘I’m a bit too worried to leave it though. I mean, you’ve gutted a Laura Ashley cushion.’
‘I told you I’d clear it up!’
‘OK, OK, that’s not why I was saying it. I just hate seeing you like this.’
‘Honestly, it was just a wobbly moment. I’m probably just hungover. Sorry.’
‘I’m sorry too.’
‘What’s going on with you, anyway? I hardly seen you these days. Is everything all right?’
Megan nods, then shakes her head, then nods again. ‘I think I’m really falling for Malcolm,’ she admits, her hair covering her face.
I shift up on the sofa, glad for the distraction. The heat moves around my skin and I peel myself off the stick of the sofa. ‘Seriously?’
‘I know. It’s a disaster, but I’m hoping a good one.’
‘Good disasters. The ultimate catchphrase for love.’
She smiles. ‘It’s so nerve-wracking getting feelings for someone. I’ve been going a bit crazy. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed.’